


so this is grief

by donutcats



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Team Cockroach, josephine!clarke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 11:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: find my experiences written into the pages of a history book forgotten to time.deep down, in the anatomy that makes up Murphy, slotted in between the anger and the hate and the sarcasm, sat the knowledge that Clarke was family.





	so this is grief

**Author's Note:**

> something v quick about murphy and clarke, because if jroth won't give them the friendship they deserve and have earned, then I guess I have to

History will talk about the way Bellamy Blake spent years grieving. Worded in some poetic way that will properly explain how fucking emotional he felt trapped up in space and mourning the loss of Clarke Griffin.

Pages and pages will be filled with his ambiguous but pure love for her, or whatever. How her death broke him, how he had to remember how to be a whole person without her. The pain he experienced, how he felt like a ship lost at sea with no shore in sight. Blah blah blah.

Because at the end of the day, it’s about them. Bellamy and Clarke, their stories so interwoven together it’s impossible to tell one without mentioning the other. It’s always been about them. About the way they started, the way they ended, and every moment in between.

The thing history books won’t mention? Not even a half sentence or a cliff note or the quickest _'oh, by the way'?_

The reason for John Murphy’s anger and destructive tendencies to be dialed up a few hundred notches, all those years on the Ring. Murphy is anger and self-hatred, the explosive need to push people away just to watch them go and prove himself right. Those are the bones of him. And history _will_ mention that.

But there’s always a spark. A start to his anger. It simmers low and constant in his blood and only ignites when pressed. The fact that Clarke of all people would be his spark while on the Ring, will go wholly ignored when spoken about years from now.

They’ve always had an odd relationship, a weird jagged tug of war between hate and respect. Hate that grew into a grudging respect tinted with fond edges that would always without fail veer sharply back to hate.

If you ask Murphy if they’re friends, if they ever were friends, he’d scoff and declare _no_. Don’t be ridiculous _no_.

But if Murphy asks himself, in a dark corner of the Ring after being put in timeout yet again, he’d admit _yes_ . They were. Not any traditional sense of the word friend. But deep down, in the anatomy that makes up Murphy, slotted in between the anger and the hate and the sarcasm, sat the knowledge that Clarke was _family_.

There’s a difference between sitting in a giant metal box thinking someone is dead but having no concrete proof, and looking into her eyes that aren’t her eyes as she tells you she’s dead.

On the Ring, he swung wildly between thinking this was a good thing and hating every minute of it. Good riddance Clarke, everyone is better off without. Clarke who killed and killed and killed. Who put his life in danger so many times.

Clarke who told him, one quiet night in Camp Jaha between one problem and the next, that she saw them all when she closed her eyes. Clarke who mourned for each mistake she made. Clarke who saved his life, put her own at risk when she realized Murphy couldn’t be another one of those mistakes.

Clarke, who he’s risked his own life for. He’s cradled her head and held her hand and begged for her mercy.

So he grieved her in his own way. He destroyed things when the itching need to cry got too much. He yelled and spat insults at anyone who was too close whenever he caught himself a breath away from asking about Clarke. He even tried to float himself once, only the once, because if one cockroach doesn’t get the chance to survive, what’s the point in the other failing at it.

Monty was the only one to know about that, being the one who found him. Murphy’s glad that moment of insanity died with Monty.

The point is, Murphy coped in the ways he knew how. While Bellamy would lock himself away and cry openly, Murphy tied that shit down and away.

He was angry at Clarke, surprise surprise. Because she was supposed to survive. That’s what they did. Insult each other and come out the other side. That’s what they still do, once he learns she’s alive. He slips back into that role of snarky asshole who everyone puts up with. He goads her and picks at her, because there’s this spot deep in his chest where he missed her.

Six years and he never really had that moment of absolute grief, it was always mixed with something else. With the anger or the bitterness or the jealousy that she got a ticket off this shitty existence and he’s still kicking around. There were always more angles, more edges to his grief.

And then Clarke is looking at him and saying she’s _not Clarke_ , and something in him _snaps_. He can hear it as Josephine smiles at him, inclines her head towards a picture on the wall.

_She’s dead._

And there it is, he thinks. There’s no anger, no hate. No witty remark to deflect this feeling. It’s pure fucking horror and he can feel it pounding behind his ribcage. History will detail the way Bellamy felt when he learned of Clarke not being Clarke. But will it talk about the way Murphy’s entire throat closes up, the tears that well in his eyes. The way his body’s first reaction is to skitter back, as he fights the urge to grab at Clarke. To try and drag her away from a threat that’s already won.

She asks if he wants to be immortal, live forever, in a voice too calm and flowing to be coming from Clarke’s mouth. He ignores the immediate panic, the urge to look for Bellamy- oh fuck _Bellamy_ , he ran after her and- No, not now.

Instead, he clenches his jaw, tries to control his voice, and answers her as calmly as he can. He decides to loop back around to his decision later, when he has to time to process all this. Right now it’s survival, and John Murphy is so very good at survival.

**Author's Note:**

> if you like my writing, please check out;  
> [my twitter!](https://twitter.com/kaijucats)  
> [my tumblr!](https://donutcats.tumblr.com/)


End file.
